


it's as though you aren't there

by edotfaust



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Changing Tenses, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-05-07 11:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edotfaust/pseuds/edotfaust
Summary: It takes a year before Aziraphale realizes that it was never truly Crowley that came back to him.-Has Crowley always smiled like that?The thought whispered venom into his mind during post-dinner tea. Each word cast shadows across his smile, and he hadn’t noticed that he stopped smiling until Crowley frowned at him. That look seemed nearly familiar, almost, and Aziraphale knew that he had seen Crowley frown before.Just not like that, his mind hissed. That is not how Crowley frowns.





	1. doubt comes in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Doubt comes in_   
>  _And kills the lights_   
>  _Doubt comes in_   
>  _And chills the air ___

** One Year and Six Minutes Since the Not-End **

 

_Has Crowley always smiled like that?_

The thought whispered venom into his mind during post-dinner tea. Each word cast shadows across his smile, and he hadn’t noticed that he stopped smiling until Crowley frowned at him. That look seemed nearly familiar, almost, and Aziraphale knew that he had seen Crowley frown before.

_Just not like that_ , his mind hissed. _That is not how Crowley frowns_.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asked. He’s sitting just like he always does, one arm looped around the back of the chair, his long limbs stretched comfortably. It was important to Aziraphale that their kitchen table was tall enough to let Crowley sit that way. He didn’t want to make Crowley uncomfortable during their talks, after all, just in case Crowley changed his mind and decided not to visit as often.

“Er...yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be alright?” Aziraphale stammered. He focused on the cup of tea clutched in his hands, the surface steaming softly. He couldn’t see his own reflection, but if he could then he would know most assuredly that he was not, in fact, alright.

“You look like you’ve seen a demon,” Crowley said dryly. “What’s got you so bothered?”

Aziraphale took a moment too long to respond, still staring down at his cup of tea, and he sensed the moment Crowley started pulling away from the conversation. In his mind, he had outstretched an open palm to the angel, and that angel had refused to take it.

“Tch,” Crowley muttered. “Nevermind, then.”

A familiar panic caught in Aziraphale’s throat, and he looked up to see a demon watching him. _Crowley_ , he tried to tell himself, _that’s Crowley because we’ve been together for a year now_. He would know Crowley since he had known him from the beginning of the world to the nearly inevitable end of it.

But six thousand years do not lie. _Do they_?

“Just remembering Armageddon,” Aziraphale managed to say. “Or rather Not-Quite-Armageddon.”

Crowley tipped his head back, just a little, hiding his burning golden irises behind the glare of his sunglasses. His only defense against the angel that knew him too well to fall for it. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Been a year now, hasn’t it?”

Aziraphale nodded and sipped his tea. It was lukewarm but he hardly noticed. His mind was racing with dark thoughts that made the tea tasteless anyway. He pulled the cup from his mouth, struggling to think about what he could say next. Staring at Not-Quite-Crowley was causing goosebumps to prickle on his arms, a very un-angelic reaction that made him even more nervous.

“I thought it all turned out well enough,” Not-Quite-Crowley said dismissively. “Don’t regret saving the world, angel, that’s what my lot is supposed to do.”

“I don’t regret saving the world,” Aziraphale blurted out, indignant. _I regret not realizing that you’re not… you, sooner_.

Not-Crowley smirked lazily and watched him from his dark frames. Every little twitch in his expression sent Aziraphale’s nerves scattering across the room, his anxiety a burning live wire. He felt like an utter fool now that he was staring directly at this...imposter of his best friend.

Not-Crowley flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch, noting the time with a soft _mm_ of acknowledgment. He rose to his feet slowly, movements so familiar, so _relaxed_. Aziraphale felt his mouth go dry just watching the way Not-Crowley stretched his neck, a habit that he had picked up after their brilliant body-swap.

_The body swap_. That was the only time they were apart in the past year. Aziraphale’s mind raced with the memory of sitting on the bench in St. James Park, seeing his own body lounge comfortably on the seat. Then they had grasped hands and switched forms.

Or at least, that was what was _supposed_ to happen.

Aziraphale stared at the interloper he had invited into the cottage for the past year, the creature he had drunk with and been tempted with lunch by. The Not-Crowley that walked to put his glass of wine into the sink with a confident saunter that Aziraphale couldn’t trust.

Horror swept through every cell in his body, and lanced through his ethereal soul. It had been a _year_ since that day. What had happened to Crowley, the real one, his best friend?

“Well, angel, I’d ask if you would want to go to bed,” Not-Crowley said, gesturing vaguely in Aziraphale’s direction. “But the whole 'angels don’t sleep' matter, that’s still happening, right?”

“Right,” Aziraphale said faintly. “Right, angels don’t need sleep. And I’m an angel, of course, and you’re… you.”

Not-Crowley raised his brows, inquisitive, but Aziraphale only sipped his cold tea and tried not to look directly at him.

“Goodnight, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and Not-Crowley seemed satisfied by that. He sauntered out of the kitchen to bed, and Aziraphale buried his face in his hands.

Now that doubt had crept in and hooked itself into his mind, Aziraphale’s thoughts swam in endless circles, the same question burning like hellfire in his mind.

_Where is_ my _Crowley_?

 

* * *

 

 

**One Year After Not-Quite-Armageddon**

 

A demon stood at a bus station to wait for an angel that would never come.

“For somebody’s sake, Aziraphale,” the real Crowley hissed. “Come on, come on!”

There was no bus coming, not this late, and Crowley was starting to feel the first prickle of fear in the pit of his stomach. He checked his watch again, impatiently staring at the face as though the hands would move just to show him what he wanted. It worked with his plants, after all, and they were probably still the best-looking bunch in London. Like always, that line of thinking brought him back to the one thing he truly needed to tend to after such a long year.

Aziraphale couldn’t be late, not tonight. It was the only time in their blasted existence that the angel needed to show up in the nick of time. After all, he owed Crowley six thousand years worth of timely appearances and demonic miracles.

The time on his watch ticked past, unbothered by his smoldering glare, and he turned to kick at the bus station bench, roaring in fury. The wood of the seat turned scorched on impact, but Crowley hardly noticed. He was already staring upwards, towards the dark night sky. He couldn’t see any of the stars, not even in Nowhere, England.

He also couldn’t see the flash of heavenly light that brought him here. That was good, then, in a very unfortunate way. He still had time, but it seemed that even the angels, sitting in their pristine suits in a white castle in the sky, overestimated Aziraphale.

Just like Crowley had.

_Do something, or else I will never talk to you again!_

Well he _had_ done _something_ , hadn’t he? Crowley cast the world in perfect silence in the path of Satan himself, and even Heaven couldn’t ignore that fact. Nor Hell, for that matter.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley muttered, staring down the empty road and into the shadows so long that his eyes ached. No headlights cut through the hungry darkness, and no angel stepped into existence with a smile.

One year, that was what Crowley had asked for. For Hea- Hel- _fuck it_ , for _Earth’s_ sake the angel had found out where the Antichrist was! The boy was built to be undetectable for occult and ethereal forces combined, and yet Aziraphale had presented the miracle of the past six thousand years. The angel collected knowledge and savored it, and yet he couldn’t show up to the bus stop? It was the very same one they took from Tadfield a year ago, so it wasn’t like the angel got lost.

_Perhaps it is for the best_ , that soft voice in his mind murmured. _What were you thinking, loving that angel?_

Crowley gritted his teeth and sunk onto the bench fluidly, and waited for the angels to snatch him back to Heaven. It wasn’t like he could fly there, he thought to himself bitterly. Not after what they had done to his wings.

Ironic, truly, that his sudden ascension hurt far worse than the fall.

The air hushed around him, and Crowley didn’t even look up to face the angel. He just kept staring down that lonely stretch of country road and the undisturbed hum of shadows that stared back at him.

“Your angelic boyfriend didn’t show up, demon,” Uriel said. Her voice tinged with that touch of Heaven that made Crowley scowl. Aziraphale used to have it, back at the Garden… or perhaps he still did have it. It had been the longest year in his life, and his memory faltered at the thought of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who didn’t come for him in time.

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it,” Crowley snapped. His heart only grew raw the longer he sat there, the disappointed squeezing of his ribcage spilling blood in his mouth. He felt absolutely sick with anger, anger, anger.

Uriel straightened, just a little, as if remembering herself to be the great angel. “Of course. Hold tightly, demon, lest you fall from my grasp.”

Crowley’s mouth pulled back in a snarling smile and he just gripped her hand. A rush of wind and light devoured his senses, and it left behind only that singing thought: the one that not even a choir of angels could sing with justice.

_Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale._

With that, the bench just outside of eastern Tadfield was empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, does it count as a hyperfixation unless you write angst for it?
> 
> The title is a line from 'Doubt Comes In' from the musical Hadestown and now you can guess the theme of this fic ;) Let's be honest, if Heaven and Hell both geared up for the End just for it to never come, they have to have their fun in another way.


	2. road to hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s a love song_   
>  _It’s a tale of a love that never dies_   
>  _It’s a love song_   
>  _About someone who tries_

**Thirty Seconds Above Earth**

 

The only way that Crowley knew he arrived back to his cage was the way that Heaven scorched his eyes. The light was brighter than hellfire without any of the familiar warmth.

Crowley hunched over and pulled his hand away from Uriel’s grip, blinking against the spots in his eyes. He still wasn’t used to seeing the stark and desolate angelic plane of existence because even after six thousand years he had tried to forget. That made the Fall more bearable, in its cruel way, because he couldn’t regret leaving what he didn’t remember.

Now, all he had were those memories staining his palms crimson red with guilt. That, and the way Gabriel’s violet eyes shone with hunger. An angel with a cheap smile and an expensive suit that represented how far Heaven had truly fallen in the past six thousand years.

“Aziraphale did not appear,” Uriel reported dutifully. She walked to stand beside Gabriel, each step smoother than a snake’s scales, so elegantly poised as the pair regarded Crowley. Uriel had her reserved dark gaze, as always, but Gabriel was the one that made Crowley wish he could disappear. Or that he had some hellfire present.

“I do recall that Aziraphale was always tardy with his reports,” Michael said from Gabriel’s other side, voice gilded with dark pleasure. “He never did take his duty seriously.”

Crowley gritted his teeth and glared at the angelic ensemble before him. He took some satisfaction in the way their answering looks were more hesitant to meet his. It wasn’t that he frightened them, not when he was stranded in their little castle, but his eyes reminded them of the only thing they had over him.

After all, Crowley had been an angel once, too. He had built nebulas that glimmered like polished jewels in the eternity of space. He had crafted stars that burned and died then burned again. He had been a hand of God, a servant of the Lord, and he had Fallen.

That was the only difference between them, after all. The angels had their shining halos, but Crowley had sauntered vaguely downward and found burning humanity.

“Right, right, well, can we get on with it?” Crowley said. His voice didn’t betray even a shred of all his agonies. “It’s been bloody long enough.”

“It’s been exactly one year,” Gabriel agreed. He laughed then, sharper than a knife’s blade, and its point landed between Crowley’s cursed ribs. “Did you think you would get out of this one, demon? I’m the Archangel  _ fucking  _ Gabriel!”

“Uh, right,” Crowley said. His voice tinged on a hiss of indignation but didn’t get farther from that. “I-”

The air shifted, charged with heavenly fire, and Gabriel moved faster than light. His fist connected with Crowley’s solar plexus, and pure agony swept through him. Crowley collapsed to his knees, gasping weakly for breath, dark spots dancing across his narrowing vision.

“Shut your mouth,” Gabriel said coldly. “I’ve been listening to you for too long. Now, you will listen to me.”

The angel punctuated this with another sharp punch to Crowley’s temple. Crowley fell on his side, still struggling to catch his breath as his heart rioted in his burning chest. The ground tilted around him dizzily, his voice caught by the groan in his throat. He couldn’t speak or scream even if he tried.

“Good,” Gabriel said pleasantly. He smoothed his hands over the lapels of his jacket, pleased with his sense of angelic mercy. “Now buck up, Aziraphale won’t be sitting still for long.”

Crowley clenched his teeth together to keep back both his nausea and the curses stringing along in his mind. His anger felt like a supernova; it was an all-consuming tide of burning that centered around these damned angels and their pristine suits and whatever they did to Aziraphale to make him late.

It had to be the angels. It  _ had  _ to be. Crowley, even dizzy with his own pain, knew that in this life Aziraphale would never leave him to rot. They had eternity and they had each other, nothing else would sway that without direct intervention.

_ We’re on our side, angel _ .

Crowley staggered to his feet, dazed, and looked Gabriel directly in the eyes. His nerves caught hellfire and burned brighter than the stars Crowley had built. Another agony to add to his Hell’s worth, each one clutching claws into his flesh. Pain-dazed blue met burning purple.

“Send me down, then,” the fallen demon said, “I haven’t got all day.”

After all, there was only so many benches at St. James Park.

 

* * *

 

**Thirty Seconds Below Heaven**

 

Aziraphale had found his own Eden after the original one failed to thrive. It wasn’t a garden that he found his sanctuary, and it wasn’t even the dozens of books that lined his shelves. It wasn’t the cottage outside of Tadfield and it wasn’t the restored Soho bookshop.

His Eden was that table at the Ritz, with flute glasses of shimmering champagne and the waiter that knew his order by heart. It was the table and the company it signified.

It was Crowley that turned the restaurant into a paradise. Without him there, sitting right beside Aziraphale as they spoke of nothing and everything, the world wilted and grew dim. The Ritz was now just as void as the original Eden.

“Good afternoon, Mister Fell,” their regular server, Henry, greeted as usual. He gave a curious look to the empty seat across from Aziraphale, still poised with the wine bottle both angel and demon preferred with lunch. “Are you expecting Mister Crowley to join you this afternoon?”

“Uh, no, not today I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said. He hesitated, wondering if he should even be here, having lunch at the Ritz  _ without  _ Crowley. They had always been a pair here. The hostess seemed surprised to see Aziraphale but it was Henry that had spoken of the void by the angel’s side.

“I see,” Henry said politely. He poured wine into Aziraphale’s glass and gracefully excused himself. Now that he was alone, Aziraphale couldn’t ignore that void any longer. He was a damned fool for coming here as if Crowley would be here, waiting for him.

It had been a year, after all. If Crowley had had the chance to appear on his own free will, then he would have. The fact that Aziraphale had gone so long with Crowley’s unsettling doppelganger made the wine taste sour as Aziraphale sipped it. He should have  _ known _ !

If he had figured it out sooner, the very day they both thought they fooled Heaven and Hell…

No, the day Aziraphale himself had thought he fooled Heaven and Hell. It was clear that whatever had returned from Heaven was not the demon Aziraphale had sent up. It had to have been an angel, but who? It couldn’t have been an Archangel, as Aziraphale would have recognized their heavenly signature, but a lower ranking angel.

Whoever it was, they had blindfolded Aziraphale to the chest-wrenching truth he now had to breathe with. Now, he had pulled away from the wool over his eyes, and what remained made him lose his appetite.

Heaven had Crowley for a full year now. The holiest of places harbored his demon in their cage of gilded gold. Aziraphale couldn’t pretend that Heaven would treat Crowley well, not after the exposure of their deception.

Aziraphale had walked free, and Heaven sent a stranger in place of his best friend.

He nursed that thought as he sipped his wine, the buzz of low conversations and the chimes of clinking silverware fading into a low undercurrent. Henry served him a plate of deviled eggs and a side slice of angel cake, Crowley’s favorite, and Aziraphale went dizzy at the sight of it.

He hadn’t realized he ordered it. Henry politely asked if he was alright, and Aziraphale only nodded and picked up a fork. Henry left with a concerned nod but Aziraphale couldn’t even feel his hands as they clutched the fork. Mechanically, acting on pure instinct, he slowly cut a bite of cake and scooped it onto his fork.

The cake was softer than silk, light and sweet, and he could only take another few bites before he felt nauseous. The Ritz made their treats daily with only the freshest ingredients from refined suppliers, and yet the cake tasted like six thousand years.

Aziraphale left an impressive tip on the table for Henry and left his Eden.

His mouth tasted like ashes, and stepping into the street only made him feel worse, like he was about to take flight just to escape the suffocating grasp of gravity on him. He had nowhere to go. The only place he wanted to go to was Heaven, and he didn’t fancy the idea of crashing back down, Falling farther than Earth where only misery awaited him.

He cast a look towards the sky, barely flinching when a human rushed by and brushed his arm. He heard muttered curses and could feel the glare aimed his way, yet his urge to apologize had evaporated. He was caught in the web of his thoughts, that dangerous haven of his, that whispered of retreat to the atmosphere.

Alpha Centauri was the one Crowley fancied. He had built that one, Aziraphale knew from one late night and too much wine. Apparently, it was one he was proud of, at least proud enough to try and show Aziraphale.

_ One day _ , Aziraphale thought to himself. He would visit the galaxies that Crowley boasted about and stargaze. When he finished his business here, that would be the perfect sanctuary, one Heaven couldn’t take from him.

Aziraphale adjusted the cuff of his jacket neatly, his heart leaping when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and began his walk to St. James Park. That was Not-Crowley reminding him about their duck-feeding date.

He had a meeting with a snake, and he wouldn’t let it slip away without letting it know how much of a terrible idea it was to take Crowley away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from Hadestown as well. Not sure if the fans overlap in GO, but if any of y'all know what it's about.... you're in for a ride. ;)
> 
> I'm rusty to the fanfiction scene, but Good Omens has overcome my life so... I'm riding the high as long as possible lol. There's also SO much hype and I am thriving on the new fics and the old ones too! I love all the speculation and kudos in the last chapter, seriously made me cackle while I wrote this chapter, so thank you all again. <3 I'm glad y'all love the angst too :)


	3. chant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I recall there was a time ___  
>  _We were happy, you and I ___  
>  _In the garden where we met ___  
>  _Nothing was between us yet ___

**Five Minutes From Eden**

 

There was only one person on the bridge, and Crowley suspected that it was one of Heaven’s miracles. They didn’t have to worry about paperwork and clearing the minds of humans if there were none around to get hurt.

Because Heaven loved hurting if it brought as little attention as possible. They wanted the worship, the hymns, the adoration of humans. Hell preferred personal touches, the claim to the darkness humans festered for themselves. Two sides of the same coin, and Crowley never had much luck with coin flips.

It was Heaven’s doing that the bridge was empty, but it was Hell that put him on the bridge in the first place.

Or rather, his damned clone. Familiar long limbs, a tall figure leaning casually on the railing, the dark jacket Aziraphale must have bought because that looked like a flash of tartan on the collar. Every detail seared in Crowley’s mind, and the longer he stared the angrier he got. The same styled dark hair, a little longer than the century called for but after all, it had been a year since that day.

A year since he stood in St. James Park, during the last moment he saw himself call for help as he was dragged away. Except that it wasn’t truly him that was swarmed by demons and taken to Hell for the trial.

Aziraphale had worn his skin, and Aziraphale had been the one to make it back to the surface. Crowley never had much luck with his gambles. He was a flash bastard, after all, and it was hard to grace his way through an angel’s trial.

Especially _his_ angel’s trial, with Gabriel’s glittering violet eyes eagerly watching as Aziraphale stepped into hellfire, the only thing that would kill him. Not inconveniently discorporate, no, Heaven wanted to watch Aziraphale _burn_. They wanted to watch the angel step into oblivion and burn, and Crowley has to yank himself from thoughts of that moment before he spiraled into the darkest abyss of anger he’s ever felt.

The bridge is empty, so no one noticed him standing so very still, haunted in his own mind. He was still staring at himself, but now he found that ‘himself’ had turned around to look back.

His clone smiled like a snake. Crowley flashed a snarl back, a low hiss buzzing the back of his throat. If he spoke now, he would hiss, and he didn’t even care.

“How is Heaven?” His clone asked, his voice carrying above the earthly plane, with that damned satisfied smile never wavering. He must have had plenty to be happy about, if he had Aziraphale doting on him for the past year, enjoying the trivial extravagance of Earth. He had escaped his bindings of Heaven and Crowley had replaced him.

“Wait and sssee,” Crowley hissed back. “When I sssend you back up.”

His clone didn’t look particularly worried. He didn’t even look like he cared, his face expressionless and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

Those were Crowley’s glasses. The bastard had pulled them off Crowley’s face when he was writhing in pain on the ground, and when he slid them onto his face, his entire body shifted like rippling scales. The white wings turned Fallen-dark, his blue eyes turned snake-amber beneath the glasses, and his smile was weaved with the kind of temptation that tore down Eden.

Itzil was the most unsettling creature that roamed Heaven and Hell and everywhere in between, and Crowley wasn’t just saying that because the being wore his face. Although, the disturbing truth is that Itzil was better at being Crowley than _Crowley_ was at being Crowley. He had the swagger in his stride like he wasn’t used to using his limbs when he moved. He had the brilliant golden eyes that held lifetimes of memories with humanity.

He even had Aziraphale, sweet and bastardly Aziraphale, convinced that _this_ was the Crowley he spent over six millenniums with.

“No need,” Itzil said with Crowley’s air of nonchalance. “I was planning on taking a trip up there myself. Report to head office and all that. That lot loves their paperwork.”

“Ssssoundsss perfect,” Crowley agreed coldly. He didn’t move, and neither did Itzil. They both stood on their respective sides, regarding their familiar faces with caution. The ducks quacked happily in the river at Itzil’s back, and a child excitedly called for their mother at Crowley’s.

“Tell Assssiraphale that I’ll missss him,” Itzil purred, his voice creeping with the same hiss Crowley tried to quell. A flawless impression, yet it said the wrong words. Crowley bristled at that. How could an absolute devil like Itzil miss something so pure and perfect like Aziraphale? He didn’t of course, he would just miss seeing Crowley rise to the same bait again and again.

“Bassstard,” Crowley snapped, but the wind swept right past him and Itzil was gone. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious, so he settled for both. His jaw ached with the way he clenched his teeth together, but that was the only way that he could calm himself down. His teeth burned with his venom, a last line of defense even in human form. The last thing he needed was to get Aziraphale sick after kissing him senseless, so he swallowed the poison down thickly.

For somebody’s sake, he missed the angel. The feelings between them were older than the dirt of the Earth, but this awkward dance they did around one another for the past few years was still a precious bud that didn’t wither, not even in the year Crowley was broken and built and twisted into the angels’ toy. Crowley had kept that bud safe even when Gabriel tore his atoms apart, even when Itzil stole his sunglasses and his face, and even when he had that torturous taste of freedom before it turned bitter.

It had been a long year, and all Crowley wanted was his angel. If Itzil was waiting at the bridge to meet him, then that would be where Aziraphale would find Crowley instead. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the slices of bread he miracled himself, and went to meet with some of his oldest friends.

He would have a lot to explain to Aziraphale when the angel arrived, but they had the next six thousand years to figure it out.

 

* * *

 

**Five Minutes Since Eden**

 

The Not-Crowley was feeding the ducks when Aziraphale arrived.

He didn’t announce his presence. Instead, he slowed to a stop, watching the lanky figure carefully. It might have been the distance, or it might have been Aziraphale’s new sharp eye on detail, but he knew that those sunglasses weren’t right. Neither was Not-Crowley’s posture; he was slumped over the railing like the entire world pressed its hands on his shoulders.

He had no right to look so tired, not when it was Aziraphale that hurt with loss. This being had taken Crowley away, and even if his revenge was late, he would have it.

If the true Crowley had seen him, he would have rolled his eyes.

 _Really, angel, revenge is more for my lot_ , Crowley would say.

Aziraphale would say, _I know, dear_.

Yet his Crowley was gone, and it would be better to have nothing than the interloper that stole his face. He couldn’t stand that false temptation, the idea that someone he loved for so long was twisted into an absolute stranger. Revenge was what demons savored, but Aziraphale had always been enough of a bastard to be likable to Crowley.

He met the creature on the bridge. Not-Crowley lit up at the sight of him, his shoulders drooping with released tension.

“ _Angel,_ ” Not-Crowley said, nearly breathless at the sight of him. “Where have you-”

Crowley had been the snake of Eden, but Aziraphale had always been faster than him when it came to the first strike. No one was watching them, Aziraphale had ensured it by casting a light miracle over the bridge. It was easier that way, when the fallout would be so dangerous for anyone who got close. Some things didn’t die so gracefully as one would think.

His grip on his sword was familiar in his palm, balanced perfectly and blazing brighter than the light of Heaven. He had given this sword to humanity, long ago, but after saving the world it found its way back to him. Strangely, the bloody thing only seemed to be with him when Crowley was not; he had it before the blessed Garden of Eden, and he had it the day angels stole Crowley away forever.

He still knew how to use it. It was heavy, but he was grateful for it now.

“ _Aziraphale_ !” Not-Crowley said, eyes wide as the sword flickered with hungry flames. Fear reflected in the fire-touched shadows of his dark sunglasses. “It’s me, angel, it’s _me_!”

Aziraphale swung, sudden enough that even he was surprised. On instinct, Crowley reared back and stumbled a few steps away, still staring at Aziraphale in pure fear. He wasn’t staring at the sword, which raged in demand for the traitor’s blood.

He was staring at Aziraphale, betrayed, and that angular face, those sunglasses hiding familiar eyes…

His heart, more human than his appearance could suggest, cried in agony. His hands felt heavier than ever as they gripped his holy sword, which still burned and burned, even after thousands of years. He had been Guardian of the Eastern Gate, back in Eden, and it felt unnatural to hold burning heaven in his hands, standing in the most mortal place he had ever seen. He had never liked that sword, truly, it was easier to speak diplomatically rather than fight like a pack of angels.

“Angel,” Crowley said desperately, his voice low and soothing and heartbreakingly familiar. “Let’s talk this out before you go swinging with that thing. Let’s have a spot of lunch, or have a picnic. With lots of alcohol, preferably.”

Aziraphale flinched. The sword blazed in response to the twitch of his fingers. He thought about the angel cake in the Ritz and the bitterness he harbored while sitting at an empty table meant for two adversaries.

Then he looked at Crowley, _truly_ looked at him. He had pulled his sunglasses off after Aziraphale’s first move, and he clutched them in one hand now. He was still looking at Aziraphale like the angel hung the stars in the sky and was on the verge of descending into a supernova.

His eyes were as blue as the turbulent oceans of Heaven. There was only one creature that had those eyes, and Aziraphale had never liked Itzil much. Too prideful for Heaven and yet completely unknowable to Hell. He wasn’t worth more than the ground he walked on, even if he walked with Crowley’s familiar features.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, soft. He always felt softer at the sight of Crowley, like the world wasn’t bearing down on them and Heaven wasn’t breathing down his neck.

He loved Crowley, adored him, _missed_ him. He would not let his best friend’s memory be used as a puppet to control Aziraphale into Heaven’s bidding. He knew that if the real Crowley was here, he would agree. They had an Arrangement, of two definitions, and that was a promise Aziraphale would not break.

This time, when he lunged forward with his flaming sword, Not-Crowley was not quite fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! This style is a breeze to write, but I know it's short. Hopefully, I can keep the pace fast enough to make up for it. This chapter's title and lyrics were hard to choose, but when I saw those lines... *chef's kiss*
> 
> I absolutely love the speculation and excitement in the comments! It really helped me fly through this chapter, and I was smiling the whole time. :) Thank y'all for the lovely kudos and reads, too! It almost makes me sorry for the little cliffhangers... ;)


	4. wait for me ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And we are not alone_   
>  _I hear the rocks and stones_   
>  _Echoing our song_   
>  _I'm coming!_

**One Second, Suspended**

 

Before a bridge in St James Park, there was an apple tree in the Garden of Eden.

Before that, there were two angels spinning stars into the gaping abyss of outer space.

Most angels didn’t speak while they worked, as that encouraged providing less dedication to their work, and their work was their only purpose. Even Gabriel, who managed legions of angels in Heaven, didn’t speak unless it was necessary. He always needed to remind some angels that talking encouraged sloth, and that was technically sinful in the eyes of Her.

The angel whose name is lost to time believed that sloth was more of an abstract concept than Gabriel made it out to be. Sloth had too many definitions, too much room for interpretation.

The word he should have used was ‘ineffable’, but he hadn’t heard it yet. He only spun stars from the web of elements surrounding him, and asked questions to his angel companion. He wondered about the laws of the universe, and spun his brilliant stars, and when the angels fell like shooting stars, he followed them below.

When they found his body simmering and boiling in sulfur pits, his blackened wings twisted and gnarled with agony, they watched him crawl out and laughed. Crawly, they called him, and through the stench of brimstone and burning flesh, Crowley bared his teeth and said nothing.

He had no questions to ask, not to the plague-ridden frogs and buzzing flies of his department of Temptation.

When they commended him for his work in Eden, he accepted it. He had heard of the apple tree, of course, but he hadn’t led the humans to it. He had defied God’s orders once before and had Fallen for it, after all. Petty sins were easier to pull off anyway. He brushed it off, accepted the honor and the blame, and moved beyond the walls of the Garden.

Then it happened again, and again. The crucifixion of Jesus, the Spanish Inquisition, the Bubonic Plague, the French Revolution, and both of the World Wars.

Whenever he went, ruin followed and then so did his commendations, but he never raised more than a finger.

He hadn’t done the work, but _someone_ had. It was driving him mad, listening to the twisted praise Head Office sent him for his work. The M-25 was one thing, but the Nazis were far worse. He blamed the humans, for lack of a better suspect, and even humanity-adoring Aziraphale had taken that with a sad look of understanding.

Humans were extremely creative beings, but they weren’t entirely at fault. Since the Garden of Eden, there had been a snake that followed Crowley closely, tempting saints and burning innocents with satisfaction.

His name had been lost during the Fall, when the fire raged brighter than the light of heavenly day, destroying the records of their names and their purposes. When the celestial scribe Metatron wrote the names of the Fallen, he couldn’t translate the angel’s name well enough. He only copied what letters remained, noting that his purpose was building star systems, and moved on to the next angel.

That was where Itzil found his name.

 

* * *

 

**One Second, Resumed**

 

Aziraphale saw the moment realization filled Itzil’s face.

He felt vicious satisfaction at the pain that overtook the creature, who shuddered violently at the blade stuck through its chest. The front of its dark jacket turned even darker from blood, spilling like fountain water, drenching the sword in slippery crimson.

Aziraphale’s hands felt numb, and with all the blood his grip slipped from the sword. His hands had been the only thing holding Itzil up; the creature crashed to its knees, gasping wetly in agonized breaths. It was still staring up at Aziraphale, betrayed and horrified all at once.

Aziraphale felt his face shift from a snarl of rage into grim determination. He had to do it, had to end the deception that choked his every other breath. Every memory of the past year was a lie, from every gentle look to every soft touch. He hadn’t kissed Crowley that day in the bookshop, when they were both too sober to blame the bottles of alcohol that filled the table. He hadn’t held Crowley’s hand during their Christmas shopping, to avoid losing the wily old serpent in the crowds. He hadn’t run his fingers through Crowley’s hair as the demon pretended to doze with his head in Aziraphale’s lap.

He hadn’t admitted his love for Crowley _to_ Crowley. He had said it to Itzil, and the bastard had the nerve to say it back.

Six thousand years of memories, miracles, and temptations, and Aziraphale had thought that they finally reached the point he never let himself dream of.

“‘Zira,” the dying being gasped, clutching uselessly at the hilt of the sword. Its voice ground and cracked like boots walking over the shattered glass. “I forgive you.”

“I don’t need your forgiveness or pity!” Aziraphale snapped. “You lied to me for a year, and I don’t even believe that you’re sorry for it!”

“I am,” it whispered. “Sorry.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, thoroughly furious at the creature’s pathetic attempt at sympathy, but his voice died in his throat. The being had raised its head, and the telltale sea of blue irises vanished into a pair of familiar golden ones.

Crowley looked up at him, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, so much blood spilling into his lap. He looked so tired, kneeling before Aziraphale, dying.

Against his own mind, Aziraphale took a half-step forward, feeling his hands shake. The eyes had been blue, as heartless as Itzil’s, but there was no evidence of the creature in Crowley’s expression. All that was left was the eyes of his very dear boy, dim with death’s touch, staring up at him with so much love that Aziraphale gasped.

It felt like waking from a century-long dream to face the clarity of life. He knew that undoubtedly, hopelessly, that he had gone for the wrong one.

He had just stabbed Crowley.

“ _My dear_ ,” Aziraphale said, agonized, and he rushed to catch Crowley before he could fall over. Warm blood soaked through Aziraphale’s coat, but he couldn’t care less about the damn clothes. A miracle could erase the evidence, even if he would always know it was there.

There was no miracle that could erase the heavenly wound he had given Crowley.

“Crowley,” he said, choked, “Stay with me, we can fix this!”

Crowley’s head felt so heavy against his shoulder. He looked down and expected to see golden eyes glaring up at him. Instead, the serpent eyes he had known for longer than the Earth stared towards a place far beyond Aziraphale’s reach.

“ _Crowley_ .” Aziraphale clutched him closer, pressing his limp body closer to his chest, desperate to feel any hint of a heartbeat. “ _Crowley_.”

“Aziraphale.”

He didn’t look up. He couldn’t look away from the emptiness in Crowley’s eyes, the lifelessness glazed over. He internally begged for the demon to blink, to breathe, to just come back and fix it all.

“Aziraphale, how could you do this?”

All the fury had fled from his body the moment his world started to bleed, but now he could feel that void in his chest grow blindingly hot with it. He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched Crowley closer. He didn’t want to be on this damned bridge anymore.

“Go away,” Aziraphale whispered. “ _Go away_.”

“Aziraphale,” Itzil said, his voice achingly familiar. He was twisting his words with the lovely cadence of Crowley’s voice. “I don’t think you want that, do you?”

He did. He wanted Itzil far from him and Crowley, burning in the pits of sulfur in Hell, screaming for his life. He wanted Itzil to suffer, just like he did now, in the anguish of eternal loneliness, the knowledge that nothing could save him from the pit he was drowning in.

Aziraphale had just lost Crowley, by his very own damned hands, and the pain that burned him hurt worse than hellfire. It was ineffable.

“Go away,” Aziraphale snapped. His voice shook dangerously. He bowed his head to rest it against the crown of Crowley’s soft dark hair, his breath hitching. The blood, _his_ blood, was so thick that Aziraphale could taste it in the back of his throat, bitter as poison.

“When you come to your senses, angel, I’ll come at your call,” Itzil said. The softest of breezes brushed by Aziraphale and signaled the creature’s departure from Earth. He had done enough damage, for one moment. There was nothing left to do here that could make it worse.

 

* * *

 

**One Second, Stolen**

 

In a garden, where it all began and ended and began again, a young boy feels the air crack with immeasurable loneliness.

The dog at his feet whimpers and rests his head on his paws. Adam Young raises his face to the sky, watching the court of Heaven shiver with the sensation. The ground beneath his feet is strangely still. The scales of the world rest, unbalanced.

“That’s not right,” Adam tells Dog.

From his place by the apple tree next door, Death watches, his expression unreadable.

“You should fix that,” Adam says to the air.

**I CANNOT FIX WHAT COMES FOR ALL.**

“That’s not fair. He didn’t get the chance to talk.”

**IT CANNOT BE HELPED.**

“It can. He can say it when he wakes up. Problem solved.”

Death says nothing, but Adam Young says it all. Death listens but doesn’t smile.

**I WILL BE THERE WHEN HE FAILS.**

“He won’t,” Adam shrugs. “Adults can be dumb but not all the time.”

From the kitchen, Mrs. Young calls her son’s name, and Adam turns to see that the space by the apple tree is empty, rotten apples littering the ground.

“He’s going to be angry,” Adam tells Dog, already picturing when his elderly neighbor will knock on the front door, and he goes inside for supper before his father comes to get him.

The world takes its next breath, and Death almost smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this and cried. I tried to wait to upload it but honestly, if I suffer y'all must suffer too ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Plus, one of your amazing comments mentioned the one thing I absolutely had to write and I would have laughed evilly if I wasn't so darn hurt by it all.
> 
> This chapter had to be 'Wait for Me II' since that was on repeat as I wrote. It's the song right before the fall, so that's about as far as I get before I restart the album. Hence... that ending scene. There's still MORE to come but like, I am sad. :(
> 
> However, thank you for the lovely comments, kudos, and reads as always! I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter. ;)


	5. when the chips are down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cast your eyes to heaven_   
>  _You get a knife in the back_   
>  _Nobody's righteous_   
>  _Nobody's proud_   
>  _Nobody's innocent_

**An Ineffable Amount of Time Later**

 

Every inch of Crowley ached.

He shuddered violently as his exposed face burned with cold morning air. He inhaled sharply, his ribs protesting loudly, his throat burning. Something was stuck in his chest, between his lower ribs, but when his hand slowly raised from his side and ran across the sore spot, he found nothing there.

He opened his eyes. Then he blinked.

He was staring up at a very familiar ceiling, yet he couldn’t recall why it was familiar. He studied the smooth gray surface silently, but his mind couldn’t conjure up the answer he expected. It was as if he had seen this ceiling in a dream and now couldn’t recall it in the waking world.

Experimentally, he wiggled his fingers. Pain shot through his joints and up to his shoulders, but it was growing into a dull hum, a constant buzz of discomfort. He tensed each muscle, one at a time, wincing when he found an especially sore spot in his leg or in his neck. He had all of his limbs and extremities, though, so he figured he was well off.

With a steadying breath, he slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. Pain exploded in fireworks behind his eyes, a fog of dizziness sweeping over him in waves. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed shallowly, willing the pain to fade.

It didn’t, but it did dull enough that he forced his eyes open.

Now he knew why it was so cold. Someone had left the window open in his flat.

Then he blinked. He was in his flat? He couldn’t remember getting here, nevermind leaving a window open and going to bed. He glanced down at himself, surprised to see that he was fully dressed, from the black jacket down to the snakeskin boots.

He must have been thoroughly drunk if he went to bed wearing all of this. Still, he didn’t even kick off his shoes? That being said, why didn’t Aziraphale take them off if Crowley was too drunk to do it himself? The angel fussed like a mother hen when he was tipsy, and if he was drunk enough Crowley let himself be fussed over. To an extent.

His head hammered with a piercing headache, but not from a lingering hangover. It felt like he had been sent through a meat grinder five times over, and if sleeping hadn’t made him feel better… how bad had he been?

He wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer to that, but he knew that he would get an earful from Aziraphale when he finally found the angel. Aziraphale loved to indulge in food and wine, but he usually sobered himself up by the end of the night. He had a tendency to _tsk_ and usher Crowley to bed when Crowley got too drunk.

“Better get on with it,” Crowley muttered to himself. His throat ached with overuse as if he had been yelling. He was _definitely_ going to hear it from Aziraphale if he was yelling last night. Their existential debates could get passionate at times, but never to the point of screaming (okay, aside from his _ETERNITYYYY_ line, but that was the end of the world). Even a drunk Aziraphale would _shhh_ him in one way or another.

It took longer than he would have liked to admit to stand up. He had to pause and catch his breath twice, every movement setting his nerves aflame with needle-like pains. He did manage to stand, with one hand bracing against the bed to keep upright, the other hovering over the pain in his chest. The throb of pain matched his heartbeat verbatim, every flare-up threatening to send him back onto the bed.

Usually, he would have simply sent his body through a forceful detox and end his pain with the snap of his fingers, but he felt... drained. Like every shred of demonic miracle within him was expended and he was running on fumes. Slowly, he shuffled to the window to close it, wincing with every step.

Now his upper back and shoulder blades burned with pain. Was he feeling each and every one of his six thousand plus years all at once? What had happened?

He reached out to shut the window, then froze. He blinked, once, dumbfounded. Then, against his own volition, he smiled.

From the backyard, Aziraphale gave him a cheery wave in greeting.

 

* * *

 

**An Ineffable Amount of Time Earlier**

 

Aziraphale hadn’t smiled in a lifetime. He wasn’t going to start now.

“Angel, what a pleasure,” Itzil smiled. It had been unnerving, at first, to see that face smiling at him as if nothing had changed. If it weren’t for those violently blue eyes, devoid of the existence of light, perhaps Aziraphale would have let himself think so.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, coldly. Itzil didn’t even flinch at his tone. The monster was carefully pouring milk into his cup of chamomile tea, and made a soft _mm_ of pleasure when it reached his preferred consistency.

“You’ll always be ‘angel’ to me, Aziraphale,” Itzil replied politely. He sipped his tea, made a face, and added another dash of milk. He tasted it again, ignoring the glare Aziraphale burned into him, and nodded in approval down at his cup. “You find the most amazing coffee shops, you know.”

Aziraphale didn’t mention that finding coffee shops was one of the few things he could stand these days, between all of the endless hours of work. Crowley never really liked coffee, so they never had reason to visit one or seek them out. There were no precious memories of this place for Itzil to interrupt, even if Crowley never strayed far from Aziraphale’s thoughts.

“The list.” Aziraphale reminded him. “I expect it to be more fruitful than the last one was.”

“Oh, it certainly is, angel.” Itzil’s eyes lit up with that unfathomable darkness, the kind that burned cities and trampled crowds. “I know you’ve been restless, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been _busy_ ,” Aziraphale corrected, his voice level. He didn’t rise to the bait, not completely. Just enough to make that darkness sparkle in Itzil’s eyes. That life thrived on just enough hardship to taste, not indulge. “Someone has to be.”

Itzil hummed in the back of his throat and took a sip of his tea. Silence descended on them both. It was the kind of moments Aziraphale dreaded, and Itzil knew it. He wanted to watch Aziraphale squirm and struggle to pull an interaction from every moment.

Aziraphale didn’t even blink. He simply stared at Itzil, focusing on those damned blue eyes (the creature wore Crowley’s face but never his sunglasses), and his mind danced in rapid semi-circles around the forbidden cage of memories in the back of his thoughts. He couldn’t carry those memories with him so openly, not with the work he did, but temptation had always been Crowley’s specialty.

Tempting Eve to eat the apple, tempting humans to bend under his will and wiles, and the worse sin of all: letting an angel fall without any temptation at all. Aziraphale had fallen in love with the original tempter, and he had paid for it.

 _God, had he paid for it_.

Itzil finished his cup of tea slowly, savoring the last sip, and the clink of his cup on the saucer signaled the moment Aziraphale waited for. He watched Itzil reach into the inner pocket of his dark jacket, pulling a crisp white envelope from within. The creature slid the gift across the table, and Aziraphale took it with steady fingers.

The paper burned hungrily in his hand, embers swept away with the December wind, and Aziraphale stood to leave. He was already running the names through his mind, pausing on each one, savoring the sins.

There was work to do, and his first stop was going to take the longest. He would start there, in Tadfield, and he wouldn’t spend a second longer than he had to. Too many memories crept around the quiet roads and pleasant residents.

He had enough wretched memories to last another six thousand years.

 

* * *

 

**An Ineffable Amount of Time Between**

 

The stench of brimstone burned his every sense to oblivion and beyond. He choked on ash and smoke and fire, and it never stopped, not when he screamed and not when he begged. He suffered through the fire and was plunged into the water so cold it burned like hellfire.

He lost every nerve in his body to pain and felt it all return in the wake of blissful darkness. It never faltered, and it never ceased. He couldn’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

He choked on copper and ash, and no one listened to his screams.

It was a mercy to rise from the dirt, nails cracked and bleeding from his frantic climb to the surface. He didn’t crawl, he _climbed_ , straight through the agony and the flames, and he had survived. Not all of him survived, of course, because he had sacrificed all the parts of him he couldn’t carry up.

His pain, for one. It rained down on him endlessly, and he let it slide off like water off of duck feathers. He didn’t save the heartbreak, the mortal wounds, or the memories. It had been too heavy to carry, a burden his mind could not grasp tightly enough.

He had left his Grace, for another. It had burned fast, a cache of gasoline within his immortal being, and it was the very first thing to go. His wings burned with it, the soft white feathers dying and falling in handfuls, and he had left those on the ground when he began to rise. The barest touch of the once holy feathers made his fingers sting wildly, and his eyes did too.

He had left Itzil down there, too. Even if the bastard wore Crowley’s face, Aziraphale knew those blue eyes better than he knew the Earth. He hated them, more than he hated Heaven, more than he hated himself. He had plummeted into Hell with Itzil wrapped in his fists, their bodies catching flame together as they fell into the sulfur pits.

Itzil screamed when his back hit the surface, and Aziraphale had laughed.

He didn’t laugh when he pulled himself out of his own grave, shaking in agony, his wings darker than midnight and aching at the joints. His chest felt hollowed out, his Grace gone and his grief sacrificed. It was harder to recall the moments before, and Aziraphale stumbled his way through Soho to the unfamiliar bookshop that bore his name.

“Morning, angel,” Itzil said cheerfully. He was sitting on the counter by the register, absently rolling a coin between his fingers. His blue eyes lit up at the sight of Aziraphale, as if he had been waiting for the newly Fallen to come home. “Ready to get to work?”

“Work?” Aziraphale asked dully. He was still aching, still smoldering in the pits of sulfur.

Itzil reached behind him, still rolling the coin on one hand, and held out a pair of sunglasses to Aziraphale. He remembered just a flash of Hell, watching the life bleed from the eyes hidden between dark glasses, gold dying in the light of day. His hands were clean, but he would always know that the stain was there.

“For your eyes,” Itzil said, not unkindly. “The sun hurts them, right?”

Aziraphale, silently, took the glasses. When he slid them on, he shut his eyes, savoring the peace of darkness. It was a comfortable weight on the bridge of his nose, and he felt his muscles unwind slowly, then all at once.

He opened his eyes and watched Itzil kick his feet lazily, still perched on the counter, waiting for Aziraphale to settle. He had two coins in one hand now, flickering between his fingers in flashes of silver, and he looked like he would wait there for eternity if he had to.

Aziraphale didn’t have an eternity.

“Let’s,” he said, finally, “get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but it only gets worse from here y'all. :) This chapter is brought to you by 'When the Chips Are Down' because life isn't easy and it isn't fair. Ain't nobody but yourself to trust!
> 
> But thank you all for the lovely comments! I thrive on pain! You're all very sweet and deserve some happier stories, honestly. Your comments are so inspiring and I read them like six hundred sixty-six times a day. Then I write. It's a lovely cycle. <3


	6. gone, i'm gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, my heart it aches to stay_   
>  _But the flesh will have its way_   
>  _Oh, the way is dark and long_   
>  _I'm already gone_

**For a Thousand Years**

 

Aziraphale had blue eyes, that much Crowley was sure of. As gentle as a cloudless sky during a summer day, clear and bright. The kind of eyes he found himself watching, over and over, through the angel’s excitement or worry or bliss.

Aziraphale had blue eyes, but they were warmer than _that_. The angel that stood before him now smiled, familiar in all of the wrong ways. The eyes were all wrong, too blue and too sharp, more turbulent like the ocean, instead of soft like the sky.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, stepping into Crowley’s flat. He walked like he knew this place as well as he knew his own bookshop. “You got yourself into a proper state last night. Are you quite alright?”

Crowley shrank back when Aziraphale stepped closer. His instincts flared at the sight of such blatant lies, wearing his angel’s face like it didn’t mean the absolute universe to Crowley. He felt utterly betrayed.

“Are you?” Crowley said, steadily making his way backward. He had some artifacts laying around that could get the job done if he was fast enough. He still had his insurance, locked in a thermos and hidden behind a safe, but he didn’t think he had the time to spin the dial and wear his protective gear. If he was fast enough, he could use another cursed item and end the illusion once and for all.

He wasn’t.

Crowley blinked, and in the span of one precious moment, Aziraphale was across the room, his hands clutching the front of Crowley’s jacket. Crowley jerked wildly at the stone-grip, hissing venom in the unshakable composure the not-angel had.

The being gripped Crowley by the throat tightly, blue eyes blazing, and Crowley choked out a blessed word just before his breath left him. Agony exploded across the surface of his skin, penetrating deeper to his bones, and he choked on a pained scream.

Slowly, the face in front of him faded to shadows, his consciousness slipping. He lashed out through the pain, wiggling desperately, begging for just _one_ chance to get it right…

The pressure vanished and Crowley collapsed, gasping desperately, touching the bruised surface of his throat tenderly. Demons didn’t need air in the same way humans did, their instincts relied more on fearing holy objects than taking breaths. Yet the fear that gripped Crowley held him by the throat and tightened around his lungs, his heart beating as rapidly as hummingbird wings, adrenaline clutching him with his near-death experience.

Demons don’t die by choking, but Crowley felt dangerously close to it.

“You should have stayed dead.”

That voice, twisted and rotten with visceral disgust, made Crowley stiffen. He felt dizzy from his brief strangulation, and every muscle in his body ached from whatever happened before he woke up in his own bed. 

“Where is he?” Crowley rasped. Every breath hurt, deep down in his chest, right down to his lungs. He felt like he was swimming in molasses, his movements too slow to reach the surface for a breath of air. Yet his mind rattled with thoughts of Aziraphale, every nerve singing with desperation.

“Gone,” Itzil said. His natural voice broke through the lovely cadence of Aziraphale’s accent, twisting the vowels the wrong way. “He Fell for you. He would have been better off without you around at all.”

“How?” Crowley snapped. Panic wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing him tight. He thought about Aziraphale standing by the Eastern Gate of Eden, blond-white curls ruffled gently in the breeze of an oncoming storm. The angel that gave humanity its first weapon, a flaming sword blessed and divine, and then lied to Her about it.

Crowley had Fallen for asking questions, enraptured by the humans that She called her children. He had wanted to protect them, let them grow into themselves, and he had woken up choking on ash and sulfur.

Aziraphale had listened to Her every word, knowing that it was part of an ineffable plan of God’s own making. Aziraphale, the angel that lied to God directly to protect an expectant mother disobeying Her wishes. Aziraphale, the angel that made an Arrangement with a demon and let it grow into something just a little bit more, just a little bit sinful.

Crowley felt sick, like he was breathing in smoke and hellfire.

“You Tempted him,” Itzil said. Either he didn’t notice how Crowley struggled with his own thoughts, or he simply didn’t care. “Azirafell abandoned Her, and he was cast down.”

Something dark crossed Itzil’s features, a storm cloud passing, and when Crowley blinked he saw his own face staring back at him. He jerked back in surprise, horrified that such a dangerous creature could change skins so easily. An ache in the back of Crowley’s mind told him that something had changed, that Itzil was never this powerful.

 _Somebody’s_ _sake_ , he had to find Aziraphale.

“Well, yeah, right. I gotta go.” Crowley waved vaguely towards the front door of his flat. “I have uh, business to catch up on. Wiles to be thwarted and all that.”

A ripple flowed over Itzil’s body, and it was his true form. Itzil looked like a shadow that was cast wrong, every edge too soft and every curve too sharp. His eyes shifted across the spectrum in never-ending tides, never settling on one pigment before twisting into the next, like those lava lamps from the nineteen-seventies. Every other detail bled like ink on parchment paper, and Crowley couldn’t tell one detail from the next.

Itzil was difficult to describe beyond his unnerving presence. He just _was_ , in a way so unlike Aziraphale that Crowley wondered how Itzil expected Crowley to fall for it. The moment their eyes met, Crowley had _known_ , so deep within his essence.

“Don’t let Gabriel catch you performing your wiles,” Itzil said. His voice fractured and broke with each word, a thousand accents and languages converging on one another all at once. Crowley winced.

“I’ll let myself out,” Itzil added. Now his voice changed, a slow roll into a proper British accent, and his face shifted itself to resemble an average-looking young fellow. All of the details wiped themselves from Crowley’s mind, and when he blinked he was alone.

His memory blurred, he looked towards the kitchen window. He wondered why he was sitting on the floor. He wondered why it was so dark out, as if the sun was plucked from existence. He wondered why he was all alone.

He wondered where Aziraphale was, and if the angel wanted to get a spot of dinner.

 

* * *

 

**For Just a Moment**

 

There’s a moment before a car crash that the world holds its breath.

Death is that moment, the one that clutches you in skeletal hands until your pulse races and you gasp for air.

Unlike humans, angels and their fallen counterparts don’t meet Death personally. Not in the way that matters, not in the way humans burn through their own mortality with smiles or tears or indifference to it all. Angels and demons will die by hellfire or holy water, and they will never return to the space they once came from. There is no place for them.

Death does not wish, not in the way that matters. A being will wish and hope, but Death has nothing but a duty that will be fulfilled no matter what.

Adam knows this. Death is his match, in terms that matter, because although he can bend reality with pure will, he cannot bend mortality.

Adam will die, one day, as he hopes he will. Death will take him, as it is a duty.

The reason this matters is because there was a moment where a car crashed, a bird sang, and Adam pulled a demon’s soul from the cloak of Death and brought him back.

In response, Death brought balance back to the universe.

As a demon rose to life, his angelic half fell to death.

Adam Young should have been more specific when he asked Death for a favor.

  


* * *

 

 

**For a Thousand More Years**

 

The bookshop was closed down.

As in, the windows displayed larger than life ‘for sale’ signs, and Crowley froze in his tracks. He stared at the signs and the phone number scrawled on each one in case a tenant was interested. For a cruel moment, Crowley felt the urge to overload the phone lines with telemarketers to this number, to serve them right for daring to sell his angel’s bookshop.

Oh, _Hell_ , the bookshop was for sale! The bookshop that Aziraphale had purchased and lovingly maintained for decades upon decades. He resolutely refused to sell anything, but minor miracles could stave off curious landlords and pay the bills.

Crowley remembered Itzil’s disgusted tone, his cruel words telling Crowley that his angel wasn’t such an angel anymore.

It would explain why the bookshop was closed, then. If Aziraphale had in fact Fallen, then he wouldn’t be able to maintain his heavenly status as a bookshop owner in Soho. He had bought the building with Heaven’s miracles and Heaven was the type of place that would demand payment of those debts in full.

Still, it was worrying enough that the bookshop was for sale, and even worse was that Aziraphale was nowhere to be found. Crowley snapped his fingers, silently demanding the doors to open despite their locks. He needed to look around himself and see if the angel left any messages behind. Did he expect to Fall? Did he even have a chance to go home before bloody Gabriel and the other angels let him go?

Still musing, Crowley snapped his fingers again, impatiently.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, he snapped again. Then, cursing blessed words that would surely make Aziraphale flinch wherever he was, he did it again. The doors stubbornly remained shut, the _for sale_ signs plastered to the front windows mocking him.

“Blasted bollocks!” Crowley yelled, lashing out a kick to the door. He aimed near the door handle, fully intending to break into the bloody shop. Aziraphale would forgive him for it if Crowley bought dinner. He just had to find his wayward angel first, which he couldn’t very well do if the doors were locked.

The wooden frames rattled violently, but the doors remained shut. Crowley, on the other hand, stumbled back with a yelp at the pain gripping his leg. He clutched his thigh with a hiss, glaring at the stubborn front door, and for the first time in who knows how long, Crowley felt that thin shred of desperation in him grow taunt and pull on his heart.

He could almost taste the smoke in the air, the stench of burning ancient parchment, choking his breathless lungs as he stormed into the inferno that was Aziraphale’s shop.

His breath caught, and Crowley ran. He aimed his shoulder, twisting his body into a battering ram, every thought in his head determined to get inside, he was going to get inside, the doors would be no match for his effort.

The sound of cracking wood filled the air, and Crowley fell into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

**For When That Is Not Enough**

 

The demon formerly known as Aziraphale raised his head.

Chirping crickets and rustling undergrowth had fallen silent the moment Aziraphale had stepped into Tadfield’s boundaries. The small village was not his territory, not quite in the sense that mattered to the wildlife. Animal instincts knew of the Antichrist, but that was because the Antichrist preserved them when the world trembled in the crossfire between Heaven and Hell.

Aziraphale wasn’t Adam. He wasn’t here to preserve anything, especially not the things that stood in his way. He had, once. He cherished books and history and the innocent lives that never lived as long as he could. He had once asked a demon to resurrect a dead dove, and the demon had.

That demon was not here anymore, so Aziraphale didn’t care. He knew what the world truly was, dark and corrupted, and the local wildlife knew there was a predator in their midst.

What Aziraphale did care about was the small spark that caught flame in his aura. He had set that trap long ago, in the middle of his frantic grief, in hopes of catching something. There was a close call once, with a nosy landlord who had hired a stubborn locksmith to break into the building. Aziraphale had taken care of them appropriately and made sure nothing human could see the building as it was.

A demon could, though. Especially one that felt inspired to investigate all of Aziraphale’s secrets when he knew that the former angel wasn’t present. According to the tug of energy in Aziraphale’s spirit, a demon had found it, all right. He wasn’t going to escape easily, not this time.

He smiled, straightened the lapels on his jacket, and vanished with the quiet whisper of wind. The wildlife let out a sigh of relief and resumed its natural state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full OBR Hadestown album dropped today and of course, Doubt Comes In destroyed me enough that I was inspired. Thank y'all for the lovely comments! <3


	7. if it's true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cause the ones who tell the lies are the solemnest to swear_   
>  _And the ones who load the dice_   
>  _Always say the toss is fair_   
>  _And the ones who deal the cards_   
>  _Are the ones who take the tricks_

**For Just The Right Moment**

 

Crowley fell flat on the ground, striking the dusty hardwood floor with an ‘oof’ from the impact. Gentle pain cracked through his palms, which failed to catch his fall, and for a moment he lay on the ground and breathed in the dust.

Dust?

He pushed himself up onto his knees, frowning. He raised his tender palms to his face and studied the thick layer of dust that coated them. Then he realized that he was covered in it and quickly brushed at the front of his jacket. He gave up when the streaks of gray only made him look worse and rose to his feet.

When he looked around the bookshop, the first thing he noticed was that it was dark. Not just dim, like when Aziraphale would light candles so Crowley could escape the bright lights of the city. It was hungry darkness, one that nurtured the types of creatures Crowley never expected to find in his angel’s bookshop.

From that gaping maw of ink-dark shadow, a figure stepped into view. The newspapers and ‘for sale’ posters on the windows blocked out most of the moonlight, but the streetlight behind Crowley illuminated the figure that greeted him.

Itzil smiled, lazy. “Maybe you can convince him to stop working for a moment.”

“Maybe you can fuck right off,” Crowley snapped. His nerves jumped in the pit of his chest. He never felt fear like this, the kind that was nurtured by the unknown and baptized in a sense of wrongness. He was afraid and he didn’t quite know why, yet.

“Trust me, I will,” Itzil said. His smile slipped, and so did his corporal form. Like the ripple of a disturbed lake surface, he changed. He grew shorter, lankier, but not lean like Crowley was. He looked like he just hadn’t hit a growth spurt yet, which was because he looked like an eleven-year-old boy. A boy with soft dark-blond curls and dark blue eyes that made Crowley squirm with discomfort.

“Come find me in Tadfield, when your reunion is finished,” Itzil-as-Adam said, and he was gone before Crowley could even blink.

“Wha- wuh-what the  _ fucking  _ Hell,” Crowley spluttered. He gestured wildly around the empty bookshop, his shadow swallowed by the empty bookshelves around him. “What the fuck is going on!”

Fingers snapped behind him, and the dim candles placed around the room quietly illuminated themselves into soft light. Crowley half-turned, fully prepared to tell off the being that dared to come into the bookshop. It was still Aziraphale’s shop, after all, and no one should be allowed to come in without that permission. Crowley himself had been given permission long ago, but he knew of no other creature that held that pleasure.

The chill that rolled down his spine told him it was a demon. Certainly not allowed, then. Crowley was the only demon allowed to be here, in this place of worship that never burned his feet or scrutinized his soul. This was the place that Crowley could say prayers that sounded more like an angel’s name than the Almighty’s, and it was a name that never burned the flesh of his tongue.

This place was his Eden, his church, his Heaven. No demon would be allowed as long as he lived and breathed.

“Get out,” Crowley hissed, and he turned fast, prepared to spit venom to get his way. It wouldn’t kill a demon, after all they were of the same stock, but it would stun them at the very least. Crowley was wily enough to figure it all out after then. Maybe Aziraphale would even show up to perform a divine miracle of the ages.

He had turned around prepared to strike, fangs flashing, but he faltered when he saw who stood there.

The rays from the lamplight illuminated a halo above the demon’s head, dim light framing the soft curls of dusty silver. Not quite white, not anymore. The demon was wearing a proper suit, shades of dark grey and black completed by a red tartan bow tie that was immaculately straightened. Even in darker colors, the waistcoat was well-worn and human crafted, appreciated by its creator and its owner for far longer than it should have been.

Even cast in demonic influence, Crowley knew him. Crowley would know him in any form, even if the aura made his primal instincts flinch back.

Aziraphale looked back at him, and Crowley felt himself take a truly deep breath, for the first time in far too long.

 

* * *

 

**For Just The Right Time**

 

This was not like the time Aziraphale crashed the taxi and killed Itzil on impact.

This was not like the time Aziraphale trapped Itzil in the church and doused him in holy water that burned him into mush.

This was not like the time Aziraphale was cast down from Earth with Itzil clutched in his burning fists, damned to the pits of sulfur that boiled Below.

No,  _ this  _ was like the time Aziraphale raised his sword and killed his best friend.

This time, he did not have his flaming sword, cast in angelic light, flickering hungrily for the type of revenge that sent angels down from Heaven. He didn’t have a flaming sword to bestow justice, not this time.

All he had was himself, his two cursed hands, and a trap set for a demon.

Crowley turned around, glaring, and for one moment Aziraphale almost wanted to smile. It had been a lifetime since he had smiled, so he didn’t. Even though he found it funny that the demon found it fit to tell Aziraphale, of all people, to leave the former bookshop. He had bought it lifetimes ago, when he burned bright with grace instead of hellfire, and he owned it in his own name. Not even Heaven could take that from him, not for long at least.

“Uh - wha - Az - your hair!” Crowley stammered. He stared at the top of Aziraphale’s head, and the former angel almost smiled again. Strange, he hadn’t felt that urge in a long time. So little light remained in the world when he returned to it. Nothing gave him bright joy quite the same as it did before.

A spark of defensiveness caught flame in Aziraphale’s chest. It was not the same light that glowed upon him, cast by Crowley’s presence. He grasped at that spark with two hands, greedy when it came to the flame. He placed an offended hand on his chest and frowned at the demon. “Dear boy, there is no need to be rude.”

Crowley looked stricken with emotions, all of which flew across his expression before he settled for a familiar smirk. The kind that was wonderfully wily and sarcastic. Aziraphale almost felt like an angel again.

“Really, angel, what is with the wardrobe change?” Crowley said. He sauntered forward, eyeing the dark waistcoat and red tartan bow tie, looking entirely put out by the entire thing. Aziraphale laced his fingers together and regarded his oldest friend silently.

Crowley looked nearly the same. Still had that flash bastard stride, carefully-careless styled dark hair, a smirk that made Aziraphale the Angel think the sort of things that contributed to his Fall. If Lust was a great sin, then Aziraphale the Demon could think of those same things without that same hesitation, now.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale began, and then Crowley turned his head. Just a tilt, scrutinizing the dark leather shoes Aziraphale was wearing, no doubt thinking about some unkind opinions. The candles caught the light of Crowley’s sunglasses, and in the wake of the glint of dark lenses, Aziraphale saw the most breathtaking pair of golden eyes.

“ _ Crowley _ ,” Aziraphale said, nearly strangled with the grief of it. Crowley startled, jerking his head up to look at the former angel. Those eyes, those damned eyes, looked right at him as though they could strip away every defense of his every nerve and unbury all of his skeletons.

Crowley blinked at him, then hesitantly stepped closer, footsteps lighter than the gravity crushing Aziraphale. He said Aziraphale’s angelic name, so gentle and worried, and Aziraphale tried to smile. By the look on the former demon’s face, Aziraphale didn’t fool him.

Not that he expected to. Crowley knew him better than any being that had ever lived and died. He knew him better than any being that came back, came back to Aziraphale, a prayer that even a demon never gave up whispering.

“You’re human,” Aziraphale murmured weakly. He strung his hands together, caught in the web of disbelief over it all. It had worked. The trials had actually worked.

“Ngh,” Crowley said eloquently. “What are you on about?”

“It worked,” Aziraphale told him, starting to get properly excited. He had worried, and rebelled, for so long in fear that they had tricked him. With every hour that Aziraphale lived on an Earth without Crowley by his side, he believed it. “Dear boy, it worked!”

“Wha-” Crowley started, and then shook his head. He gestured at the outfit once again, still dumbfounded. “Aziraphale, what is going on? _ What happened to your hair? _ ”

Crowley took a step closer, and Aziraphale rushed to close the distance. He wrapped his arms around Crowley tightly, burying his face in the crook of the former demon’s neck, savoring the warmth that filled him. He had been cold for so, so long without this presence wrapped up beside him. He would not let this go, never again, never would he survive without the warmth of the sun.

He hadn’t even noticed the way Crowley flinched at his sudden movement, an instinct that had never existed before.

 

* * *

  
  


**For Just The Right Glimpse**

 

Adam Young raises his head when the wind sighs, listening. The Earth shivers, dims, then brightens again as the storm cloud passes.

Anathema Device pauses in the middle of pouring tea. She’s still staring down at the half-filled cup, holding the kettle that she couldn’t remember buying, and when Adam speaks she jolts in shock. Hot water spills out of the kettle’s spout and Anathema barely notices.

“That took forever,” Adam states. He takes another bite of his biscuit and returns to his magazine. It was a fascinating article about global warming and its effects on the witch population. He thinks Pepper would like it, even if she lays another lecture on him about the importance of remembering the witch trials, or something.

“What was that?” Anathema says slowly. The air catches her words and lets them drop with a thud. Adam doesn’t seem to care as he turns a page, enraptured. Anathema turns to ask him again, thoroughly confused and a little nervous, but then she catches a glimpse of a figure standing in the garden, right through the kitchen window.

Adam Young waves back at her cheerfully.

Anathema blinks, and her vision shifts lazily into the swirls of aura-reading. The boy in the garden is auraless, as the true Adam was. As much as it bothered her, she was relieved that his unusual aura (er, lack thereof) could clearly differentiate him from the… thing sitting at her table.

Anathema slowly sets the kettle back on the stovetop and asks the thing if it would like another biscuit. It answers politely, distractedly, and when Anathema turns to look at its aura to decide if holy water would be the best route to go, she pauses.

Adam Young looks at her, auraless, and asks if he can have more tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Is it true what they say?)
> 
> I prefer the track sung by Damon Daunno since he sounds so absolutely gutted by his loss, but the OBCR is literally amazing, too. I listened to both, so when it gets sad that's where you can tell I played Damon's bootleg version. Also, it only gets more complicated as it goes on, so thank y'all for reading! The comments are lovely and the kudos are, too. <3


	8. way down hadestown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Give me morphine in the tin_   
>  _Give me a crate of the fruit of the vine_   
>  _Takes a lot of medicine_   
>  _To make it through the wintertime_

**At the Sound of the Bell**

Aziraphale didn’t dream.

As an angel, he had never slept. It seemed like a waste of time when there were books to be read and a good cup of tea brewed the old-fashioned way. He used the night as an excuse to do what he couldn’t manage in the morning and afternoon: reading, uninterrupted by human and serpent alike.

As a demon, Aziraphale didn’t even bother. Evidently, sleeping was a trait only one demon ever had. Aziraphale didn’t feel like he should fill that gap in the world, although he did have a bedroom furnished with only a desk and a king-sized bed piled high with plush pillows and blankets. It was the illusion of future memory, drifting within reach, his bitter patience running thin the longer dust collected on the pillowcases. No more.

Crowley lay there, now. Sprawled out on the bed and breathing quietly. He was the only one breathing, as Aziraphale didn’t need it and therefore didn’t do it. At least, that was the reason why before he saw a human standing in the middle of his bookshop. Now, he didn’t want to break the infernal spell holding the air captive, time suspended in the way Crowley’s chest rose and fell. Aziraphale didn’t want to breathe air that Crowley needed, didn’t want to give that mortal body any reason to break down and leave him.

A gentle breeze rustled the curtains and made Crowley shiver, and Aziraphale snapped his fingers. The window hissed shut, and Aziraphale returned his attention back to the pillow in his hands. He relaxed his iron-clad grip and smoothed out the wrinkles on the fabric with a steady hand.

The fabric complied. Aziraphale didn’t expect anything less of his belongings.

“You put me in quite the predicament, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. Crowley, still deeply surrendered in sleep, didn’t even twitch an eyelid. Again, Aziraphale didn’t expect anything less of a temptation he cast. “You must know why I have to do this.”

He squeezed the pillow tightly, just for a moment, and let it fall to the ground. He glared down at it, and the fabric unwound itself into crisp edges, flawless. Aziraphale lifted his gaze, eyes softening at the occupied bed, and he made a rather flash decision. Not like him at all, really, but he had been six thousand years too slow. He had been seconds too slow in realizing Itzil’s game. When it came down to the wire… Crowley would always be able to convince him to go faster.

Aziraphale slipped out of his waistcoat and draped it over the back of his desk chair. He toed off each of his shoes and rolled up each of his sleeves, just below his elbow. Then, for the very first time in six months, he went to lay down next to Crowley in bed.

Crowley was warm, but not scorching. He wasn’t invasive like the sulfur pits or biting like the speed of terminal velocity. He burned so softly that Aziraphale wiggled closer to him to chase after the gentle heat. They ended up pressed together, Crowley’s chin resting on the top of Azirpahale’s shadowed-white curls, the demon’s arms wound around the familiar snake-like waist.

It was almost a shame, Aziraphale mused, that Crowley wasn’t awake to enjoy it.

Crowley, for his part, sighed in his temptation-induced slumber as if he agreed.

 

* * *

 

**At the Sound of the Call**

 

_ I’m right here, angel, just keep going! _

The shadows beckoned him, wrapping around his ankles, hands of mist gripping his legs. He needed to slow down, he was going too fast, he couldn’t keep up -

_ … Angel? _

The shadows melted away. There had never been anyone there after all. He wasn’t following anyone, it was just his imagination. He was going too fast.

_ No, no, no! _

What was he doing here? This was no place for his kind, among the dirt and the sinners that crawled in it. He was more divine than the soil, stained with black ichor and his own heavy footsteps. He was an angel, a guardian of humanity, and he would not be fooled by demons. He was too fast for their wily tricks.

_ Please, Aziraphale, I’m begging you! _

He paused. There was someone behind him. He could hear their infernal aura sparking ozone in the air. His angelic senses told him it was dangerous, it was a sin, it was something that needed to be thwarted. He needed to be faster than this.

_ Angel, you can’t do this to yourself! _

Aziraphale’s senses told him it was Crowley. The rare beam of London sunlight touched his face reverently. He had made it to the surface.  _ They  _ had made it to the surface. They were quick enough that they managed freedom for the first time in six thousand years.

_ Angel, don’t, I can’t watch you die for me- _

He turned around, smiling, lighter than the sun’s mournful kisses.

The light died around them, and that was when Crowley began to scream.

 

* * *

 

** At the Sound of the Kill **

 

Crowley blinked himself awake and immediately thought he was still dreaming.

His mouth, dry as cotton and foul with morning breath, made him grimace. If morning breath couldn’t be a dream, then it had to be a nightmare.

He opened his mouth once, twice, thrice. He had no clue what to say that wouldn’t absolutely ruin the most amazing moment of his life. The soft curls tucked under his chin shuffled slightly as Aziraphale shifted in his sleep, but the angel didn’t wake.

There was an angel sleeping next to him,  _ pressed up right next to him _ , and he was so warm that Crowley began to realize how uncomfortable he was. He squirmed slightly and froze when Aziraphale sighed against his collarbone. The rush of warm air made Crowley shiver. There were very few excuses to be this close to an angel, to be able to wrap himself in Azirphale’s embrace, safe and so very warm.

Since when did angels run so warm-blooded? Granted, Crowley was a serpent, but there was a difference. A very spectacular, occult difference. Or ethereal, if you asked Aziraphale, who would correct you with an audible sniff of disapproval.

Still, Aziraphale was too warm. Perhaps he had a fever? That would explain the sleeping bit. Never in his six thousand years had Crowley noticed that the angel slept. In fact, he was often scolded for disappearing and sleeping for a week worth of nights when Aziraphale fell into reading a new rare manuscript and realized he missed having dinner at the Ritz. Aziraphale liked productivity, particularly near-continuous consumption of knowledge and food, and sleeping didn’t allow him to do either one of those things. Which made it an obsolete task in the angel’s agenda.

Until now. Since there was an angel, there was  _ Aziraphale _ , wrapped up in Crowley’s embrace and sleeping soundly.

It must be a nightmare. Some twisted version of a fantasy Crowley may have daydreamed of when he felt particularly lonely and pathetic. He forced his wire-taut muscles to relax, one by one, melting into the soft mountain of pillows and cloud-puffed comforter. If this was a nightmare, meant to torture his memory when he woke up, then he was going to memorize every breath against the nape of his neck, the soft sighs Aziraphale made in his sleep, lovely and so very real, right in his arms.

Crowley would have this memory when he woke up. He would remember it, keep it in the lockbox in his heart chamber, safe at the very core of him. This was just a fantasy, one he wouldn’t have to share, to speak in the air and let it settle like snowfall in the space between the two of them.

Crowley closed his eyes, lingered on the edge of sleep’s tightrope, ready to fall. He decided that when he woke up, he would call the angel and tempt him to a spot of lunch, with enough wine to forget the feeling of Aziraphale’s head on his shoulder, the trust settling in the thick of Crowley’s throat, too big for words and too big to ignore.

He let sleep’s fall pull him below, and if his next dream was about a sunny day in St. James’s Park, blood dripping from the cavity of his chest to stain a century-old angelic suit, cradled close until the sun blinded him, then he didn’t have to mention that dream to the angel, either.

 

* * *

 

**At the Sound of the Fall**

 

“ Give me the chance.” An angel said. Desperation stained his voice wine-dark, consuming. He didn’t look away. “I just need one chance to make it right.”

“He was a demon,” a voice replied, matter-of-fact, bureaucratically bored. “Demons don’t get redemptions, or another chance, angel.”

“Don’t  _ call  _ me that,” the angel snapped. He wrung his soft-calloused hands together anxiously, then said more politely, “Look, I understand you’re just doing your, er, work. But this matter is very important, and I must see him as soon as possible.”

“There’s nothing left to see,” the receptionist sighed, all-suffering. He wondered if old Beezlebub had their buzzing hands over this. You say hello to one archangel, and suddenly you’re planning on drowning all of Hell’s nine circles of torment with holy water. He stared at the flickering computer screen, clicked disinterestedly on a few files, and clicked his tongue. The gecko perched on his dirty crown of curls licked each of its eyes and stared back at the angel.

“I...” the angel faltered, then plowed ahead, “I can feel him here. I know you have him down here, and I really must see him!”

The demon looked away from the computer screen and studied the angel’s face. “Don’t you have blessings to do, Principality?”

“I refuse to leave without Crowley,” the angel insisted. A layer of shadow passed below the angel’s blue eyes, shining even in the pressing darkness of Hell’s waiting room. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Ribesal,” the demon said. “What’s so special about this Crawly fellow, anyway? He hasn’t done anything notable since...” he turned to squint at his computer screen. “1945.”

“ _ Crowley _ . He’s a wily old serpent,” the angel said immediately, feeling a faint rise of defensiveness on Crowley’s behalf. “He causes nuisance wherever he goes, even if it isn’t mentioned in those files! Now I really must see him, and make sure he is still whole because he belongs on Earth.”

Ribesal smiled, knife-sharp. “You really believe that?”

“Of course!” The angel snapped. “He’s been on Earth for over six thousand years. He caused the first humans to leave Eden, you know, he doesn’t know anywhere else besides Earth. Now let me see him!”

Ribesal rolled his eyes, but his other hand was already reaching for the rotary phone on the edge of his desk. He spun a number and put the receiver to his ear, waiting. Beelzebub answered on the first ring, their low buzz of displeasure crackling over the phone line.

“I have Aziraphale, Principality of Earth, here,” Ribesal said. “Looking for Crawly. Yes, Lord, he’ll be right in.”

He hung up the phone and turned to tell the angel which door to take, but Aziraphale was already rushing past the desk, determination in every stride, and Ribesal decided that the solitaire game he left paused on his screen was far more interesting at this point, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this chapter, but I can't stand to look at it anymore. Moving on!
> 
> Ribesal is an actual demon name I researched, so google him if you'd like a little myth. He considered Aziraphale pure enough to call Beezelbub, which is ironic. The timeline shifts a little bit, but will be explained clearly as time goes on. Crowley and Aziraphale need to have a conversation like grown-up six-thousand-year old friends do, but that's unlikely to be their first step...
> 
> Thank you all for the kind comments and kudos! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, does it count as a hyperfixation unless you write angst for it?
> 
> The title is a line from 'Doubt Comes In' from the musical Hadestown and now you can guess the theme of this fic ;) Let's be honest, if Heaven and Hell both geared up for the End just for it to never come, they have to have their fun in another way.


End file.
